


Helenore Lily Potter’s 1st Life: Or How Harry James Potter Found Out He Was A Witch

by acourtofbooksandtea



Series: The Many Different Lives of Helenore Lily Potter [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Always Female Harry Potter, Female Harry Potter, Genderswap, I'm Bad At Tagging, Rituals, also, and dumbledore is a meddling old coot, because of a ritual, honestly who let me tag, no beta we die like men, or women in Harry's case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-23
Updated: 2020-12-23
Packaged: 2021-03-11 04:46:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28269342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acourtofbooksandtea/pseuds/acourtofbooksandtea
Summary: Apparently, Headmasters-with-too-many-middle-names couldn't be trusted. Or anyone at all, really. Harry wondered why he was still surprised about that.or:Harry James Potter gets summoned to Gringotts for his birthday, suffers through a painful ritual and wakes up as a witch.
Series: The Many Different Lives of Helenore Lily Potter [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1877908
Kudos: 20





	Helenore Lily Potter’s 1st Life: Or How Harry James Potter Found Out He Was A Witch

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Harriet Potter: What it is like to be a witch](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4699043) by [JCL27_00Q](https://archiveofourown.org/users/JCL27_00Q/pseuds/JCL27_00Q). 



> So, a whole time ago, I wrote and posted the prologue to Helenore Lily Potter's 471st Rebirth: Or, The One Time She Knew What Was Going On. As it turns out, writing a prologue does not mean having an entire plot, so I just - stopped writing. And then I had to study for tests, and hand in a massive paper and found lots of excuses to not start writing again.   
> But now it's Christmas break, so I decided to start again. It's no second chapter, but I couldn't get it it out of my head, so here it is I guess.
> 
> Enjoy!

Harry stared intently at the gold, battered alarm clock in his palm, counting down the last sixty seconds to the first stroke of midnight. The pair of vibrant emerald eyes watched unblinkingly from behind black, round spectacles as the last seconds ticked away, announcing a brand-new day. When the clock struck midnight, Harry released a breath of relief. He had survived another year, and was now, in the eyes of the Wizarding World, officially an adult. Even though he didn’t immediately feel any different, he knew that it was now 31st of July and, more importantly, his seventeenth birthday.

“Happy birthday, Harry” he muttered to himself, as was tradition too, even if there usually wouldn’t be anyone present to hear or congratulate him with his birthday. This was actually his first with other people present, because yes, he certainly counted goblins as people, thank you very much.

The counting down was a tradition, upheld by Harry ever since he had been able to tell the time. When he had been younger and not in the possession of a clock, he would stay awake, listening to the clock in the hallway and counting out every second till midnight. Later, for his eighth birthday, he had nicked a small, dull golden alarm clock from Dudley’s second room, and would watch as the battered arms made their final round. And during his time at Hogwarts, he would use a _Tempus_ to track the final minute of the 30th of July.

One might wonder why Harry would feel the need every year to count down those final sixty seconds until midnight. What was the point? He was only turning a year older, after all. Why was being seventeen any different than being sixteen? Why would he watch as those seconds ticked away? They were ticking away to not return, disappearing into the past. Ageing was a process that was not to be controlled at will. Possible to slow down, yes, but never reversed nor avoided altogether. One might want to avoid thinking about such things altogether, as the irreversible passing of time usually reminded one of their own brittleness and insignificance.

Harry counted down to remind himself that he had lived to see another year. That Voldemort _hadn’t_ succeeded in killing him. That he would continue to spite the Dursley’s with his mere existence for _at least_ another day, and quite possibly more than that.

Suddenly embarrassed, (he could _feel_ a red hue spreading over his cheeks), he glanced around, noting the goblins stationed at intervals at the walls, none sparing him a second glance. That was another first, to celebrate his birthday in the Ritual Room at Gringotts. Hence the goblins. When he’d gotten the missive asking him to come to Gringotts _immediately_ , he had Apparated first, asked questions later, which was how he ended up on the uncomfortable slab of stone in the middle of the Ritual Room on the first floor.

Apparently, he was under some kind of spell that would cancel on his seventeenth birthday and that process would, supposedly, hurt as hell. He was absolutely _delighted_ with the prospect of more pain, especially on his birthday. But surprise surprise, the infamous Potter luck apparently hadn’t disappeared after he had defeated Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts.

Suddenly, pain laced through his body. At first, it wasn’t that bad, nothing he hadn’t felt before. But before long, the pain intensified, leaving him breathless. It felt as if there were thousands of red-hot needles pricking in his skin. His blood boiled in his veins, his guts shifted around in his abdomen, his bones felt as if they were forcefully being relocated. The pain was comparable to being held under 3 Crucio’s. If he hadn’t been lying down on an uncomfortable slab of marble, he probably would have fainted. As it was, he passed out.

* * *

When he regained consciousness, his throat was hoarse, as if he’d been screaming.

“You most certainly were screaming. For a good few hours, in fact. I feel sorry for your husband when you go into labour,” a dry voice commented. Harry bolted upright, or tried to. His muscles protested firmly and refused to cooperate. Stupid muscles. He ought to find some new ones.

Wait, did he just hear _labour_?? He couldn’t possibly be pregnant, could he? Was that even possible as a male?

“Yes, you did just hear me saying ‘labour’. It’s not that weird of a word, honestly. And no, as far as I know, you are not pregnant. Though it _is_ possible for a male to become pregnant. You know, _magic_ and all that.”

Oh. Shit. He was probably talking out loud, wasn’t he.

“Yep,” the voice chirped. “It’s rather amusing, to be honest. Also, you might want to stop referring to yourself as ‘he’.”

The fuck?

He finally reached the presence of mind to crack open one eye.

And promptly closed it against the glaring white light.

“Oops, my bad.” the stranger said. They didn’t sound sorry in the slightest, he thought.

“You’re right: this is way too funny.” 

Oh hell, he was talking out loud again, wasn’t he?

“Yup!” the stranger cheerily replied. “You might want to try to open your eyes again, by the way. I can assure you it is a rather nice sensation.”

If he’d been able to, Harry would’ve glared. But as it was, that required open eyes to begin with, and yeah. He was working on that part. Cut a guy some slack.

He finally managed to open both eyes and blinked repeatedly, trying to process what he was saying. The light wasn’t as intense, after a while he was able to make out shapes and colours. He was probably lying in a hospital bed (and Merlin knew he spent more than enough time in those). He groaned at the headache that was currently relentlessly pounding away? at his skull. 

“What time is it?” he managed to croak out.

“Don’t try to talk just yet,” the raspy voice replied, “drink these potions first. They should help you with the effects of your Changing.”

A hand appeared in his line of sight, holding a lilac-coloured potion. He obediently drank it, wincing at the foul taste. Next came a veritable rainbow of colours, he swallowed them all. After he was sure he had drunk a liquid rainbow, he was finally handed a phial filled with the familiar light purple of a Dreamless Sleep potion.

When he woke up, his headache had lessened somewhat. As he tried to find a more comfortable position, he felt a slight discomfort in his chest area when he rolled onto his front. As he returned to his original position on his back, he lifted an arm to push his hair covering his face to one side.

He froze.

Since when was his hair long enough to cover his face? He gingerly removed his hand, only to freeze again.

Since when did he have _lumps_ on his chest?

He quickly sat up on the bed, wincing as he felt his body protesting the sudden movement. He gingerly swung his legs over the edge of the bed, aching in places he didn’t even know it was possible to hurt.

He groaned again as his memory caught up with him. The reason for his visit to Gringotts, the ritual and, more disturbingly, his earlier conversation. That was obviously some time ago, but how long had he been here? He wasn’t sure and there was no window to check the time. In fact, there was nothing in the rough stone room except for white beds placed at regular intervals and the strong smell of antiseptics. It was obviously an infirmary of sorts.

His clothes had been placed by his bedside table, along with his glasses and wand. Wait.

Since when could he see clearly without his glasses?

Blinking, he reached for his wand and conjured a tall, standing mirror.

And froze once more.

Because in the mirror, he could clearly see a female looking back at him. With the same, raven-black hair and emerald green eyes, but a female nonetheless. He snapped out of his stupor and stood up. His mirror image did as well.

He stared hard at his(her?) reflection in the mirror, finding himself unable to look away. His hair, usually an unruly mop, fell to his-her hips in long, silky strands. Her skin was still pale, but she didn’t look like a tired and sickly anaemic, which he- _she_ counted as a plus. Her scars, including the famous lightning bolt were still present, however. A silent reminder of all he had survived and all those he had lost. (faces flashed before his eyes. Fred. Tonks. Remus. Sirius. Cedric. His parents.)

He blinked, bringing him back to the present. His face was much the same, yet impossibly different. His nose a touch smaller, his cheekbones only slightly higher and more pronounced, his jawline _just_ a bit softer, his lips impossibly fuller.

And Merlin, he did indeed have breasts. They weren’t very big, not nearly as big as Ginny’s or Hermione’s, but they were noticeable. He bit his lip when he realised he would need new clothes, as he wouldn’t fit in his old ones. He hadn’t grown, per se, but his hips and legs certainly wouldn’t fit in his jeans.

He(maybe he should start using she?) was also pleased to notice that he hadn’t lost any hard earned muscles during his transformation. He had no intention to go through all those gruelling Quidditch workouts again, thank you very much.

He shook off those unnecessary thoughts, however, when she suddenly realised just how calm she was being, (how _right_ it felt to use she). Though she supposed that was due to the shock and the situation would begin to kick in sooner rather than later.

ah. There it was.


End file.
